


[fistfuck]

by threadoflife



Series: sherlock ficlets [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Video Cameras, nothing else, recorded masturbation, sherlock likes displaying himself but is a bit shy about it, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Sherlock records himself wanking before a camera for John.





	[fistfuck]

**Author's Note:**

> am posting all my old things from tumblr here on ao3, and this one has no redeeming value whatsoever
> 
> in response to this one video i saw on tumblr.... click at your own discretion BUT CLICK!!!!!!!
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/160559782002/uuuhhhmmm-ignore-the-hint-of-beard-this-is

The camera is recording. Sherlock watches himself: his hands are steady and his fingers precise when they undo the belt and slip between the buttons of his trousers. He stands still, body relaxed and firm, seemingly at ease.

He doesn’t record has face. The flush under the unbuttoned shirt—along his throat and around his clavicle—betrays a hint of the anxiety that shows too much on his face (bitten lips, rapidly blinking eyes, red cheeks). It doesn’t matter: John will like what he will see, anyway. Of that Sherlock is sure.

He slips his hand underneath his shirt, pushing it up a bit. The hollow of his belly shows under the black fabric. He caresses himself like that for a moment, then two, runs the heel of his palm along the curve of the hollow, dips his index and middle finger briefly into his navel, a lingering swirl. His belly flexes; it tickles.

His fingers drift lower, toy along the waistband of his trousers. They are open, the fly peeling apart in the middle and the belt curving out to each side of Sherlock’s hips, like the opened bow of a gift. Sherlock scratches his nails over the sparse black hair underneath his navel—disappearing into his pants—and his belly flexes again. Then, impatient, he shoves his trousers down to his thighs—they stick to his skin—and, bringing his fingers back to the waistband of his pants, his pants too.

His cock springs out, erect. It dips down first, a heavy weight, and then bobs up, a little. Thick, it curves slightly upwards, to the left. His balls beneath are just as heavy, a good heft in John’s hand—Sherlock remembers that well.

His hand hovers near his cock, spasms once in anticipation of touch. He doesn’t fistfuck it, though the temptation is irresistible. Instead, he carefully presses his thumb to the slit at the head, presses down, dips inside.

Where the camera cuts off, John will later see Sherlock’s neck strain: he will know Sherlock has thrown his head back because his hair is visible like this, tickling the nape.

Then, to Sherlock finally fistfucking himself—to the off-camera noises of fast huffs and gravelly grunts—to Sherlock’s flexing thighs and jerking hips—John will sit, legs spread wide with his hands in between them, open mouthed and dizzy, and he will wank himself stupid.


End file.
